


The Only Thing

by sciencemyfiction



Category: Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: M/M, just a lil romantic thing I wrote a while back, short and sweet, that I'm archiving here after happening to rediscover it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-04
Updated: 2018-12-04
Packaged: 2019-09-07 05:33:51
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,050
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16848109
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sciencemyfiction/pseuds/sciencemyfiction
Summary: A moment you share, a mage alone with an assassin, and question yourself, and find a satisfying answer.





	The Only Thing

It is late at night, and all is still and quiet in the camp. Morrigan is dreaming, smiling off in her own tent, her laughter sometimes peppering the whispering crackle of the fire, welcome in the midst of serious faces and solemn fellows. Ohgren is on watch and in a terrible mood about it; you try not to hear him.

Alistair sits alone by the fire, where he has fallen asleep, his sorrow his sole companion. Sometimes you are sorry you cannot be more for him. It is not as though you haven’t tried, but either your status as mage or man makes such a thing impossible. You have already laid a blanket about his shoulders; it is the best you can do.

Leliana and Wynne sit by the supply crates, sleepily discussing the battlefront strategy for tomorrow’s march and their roles within it. Shale and the dog keep watch on the far side of camp, while Bodahn and Sandal talk softly.

And here in your tent, where it is in fact quite cold, Zevran’s chilled fingers are working at the tension in your neck, and you are confessing everything to him.

It began with a teasing smile and Zevran leaning into your shadow, the way that he does, saying, “You are always asking questions and listening, yes? Tonight, tell me everything. If you like, I can tie you up and beat it out of you.”

You had smiled and said no need to beat you, and he made a moue of disappointment, and away into the tent you’d walked. And then his fingers, deft and–yes, cold unlaced your robes and prized them from your shoulders, letting them fall away and leaving you shivering. He leaned in close, breathing in your ear, and hummed very softly, a faint song you taught him unthinkingly some months ago.

His fingers feel almost skeletal, but they are quick and clever, and in no time at all, you are shivering, boneless, murmuring your secrets away quite willingly whenever he asks you even the simplest question. 

First, he whispers in your ear,  _Does this feel good, on your neck, my silly Warden?_  and you say yes. Then,  _Have you ever had a massage before?_   _Not just your neck, your whole back. How about that?_

He feigns alarm when you confess that you have not, and then insists that you lay down on your stomach so that he may treat you. He professes to have fingers enchanted by lyrium, and you snort softly in disbelief. You tell him that he has already disarmed you, he may certainly have his fill of you if he likes.

His hard, sharp, deadly clever fingers dig into your shoulders and a fire like pain and pleasure spikes through you. You find yourself grabbing onto the furs beneath you for dear life, biting your lip against a pitiful whimper. He does not stop, not even falter, and when that strange, hot ache of muscles jabbed and prodded until they have begun to bruise as they at last unlock begins to get unbearable, you start talking in earnest.

You tell him at length how much you enjoy simply letting go, letting him have his way with you, letting him rut against you until you’re both exhausted and sweaty and messy and sleepy. It’s something you’ve never really had, no matter how cavalier you may pretend to be amongst the others. Oh, you had furtive moments in the Circle tower, but for the most part you were lonely, and never really given to fits of passion, for obvious reasons. You tell him how, when Wynne first learned of your relationship– your  _dalliance_ , as she’d called it– and had the nerve to tell you that you could not risk your objectivity with such a selfish pursuit, you had felt so angry that you’d begun to get dizzy. You relate bitterly that you had to walk away before you started screaming at her like a petulant child, burning with shame and pride and rage.

You tell him, truthfully, that in a strange way he is the only thing you have ever dared to openly want, and been comfortable wanting. And then, of course, you hastily apologize for speaking of him as an object, for putting him on this strange pedestal of desirability as you’ve done, and he interrupts you with a sharp jab against your lower back that actually hurts.

 _No need to apologize_ , says Zevran, and his voice is rough and his hands are rougher, working the tension out of you so brutally you wince and grit your teeth against it, helpless to do anything but relax. When he is at last satisfied, and you are beginning to wonder if he really does mean to torture you, he lays down on top of you, still dressed in his leather armor, still hard and cold against you, and presses his warm lips to your cheek.

Again, he says,  _No need to apologize,_  and his voice rolls on the words, lifting up into a mellow laugh.  _I am admittedly rather pleased to be wanted. Besides, I should apologize for many things, and can’t be bothered. If you apologize for kindnesses, my guilt will surely triple in size._

You agree that that would be counterproductive, and lay there, surprised to discover you are too relaxed (and throbbing sore, your back hot in some places where bruises are beginning to form from a massage perhaps more thorough than anticipated) to care that Zevran is yet fully clothed. Luckily for you, he decides after some moments to sit up and divest himself of the armor instead, rejoining you with a low sigh and a kiss to the back of your neck.

You ask him, curiosity warring with drowsiness,  _If you were to kill me, now. How would you do it? Right now, right this second._

The question is a serious one, or as serious as you can make yourself be when the matter involves Zevran as intimately as it does. You ask him most nights, though usually you ask before any clothing has been flung to the corners of the tent.

Tonight, Zevran only yawns.  _With old age._  He smiles into your shoulder, and you feel yourself smiling, too.  _Go to sleep. We can play that game tomorrow._


End file.
